


The Grave and the Constant

by Steals_Thyme (Liodain)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe
Genre: Accidental Endearments, Angst, Bats, Costume Kink, Costume Swap, Crack, Fanart, Flash Fic, Fluff, Kissing, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Suit Porn, baffling whatnots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Steals_Thyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grave <i>adj.</i>: Dignified and somber in conduct or character.<br/>Constant <i>adj.</i>: Steadfast in purpose, loyalty, or affection.</p><p>Collected ficlets and doodles from the <a href="https://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html">DCEU Kinkmeme</a>, and other anon spaces.</p><p>This update: Romantic fluff  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kryptonese for Dummies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the depths of FFA's BvS threads <3
> 
> The Kryptonese is just directly transliterated from English, as I am not that cunning a linguist. 
> 
> ~~I decided to leave exactly what was said up to your imagination... or you can mess around on[kryptonian.info](http://kryptonian.info/doyle/transliterator.html) and figure it out. ;)~~
> 
> Okay, fine, translations in the endnotes. Grumble grumble.

It takes some maneuvering, but Bruce eventually manages to convince Clark to let him swipe some of the Kryptonian tech and install it in the cave. The man has a stubborn streak a mile wide and while it's good to get to know him better, Bruce doesn't find it his most edifying trait. It's not like the tech was going to do anything but sit in government quarantine otherwise, waiting for the next supervillain with delusions of grandeur. And Bruce will make good use of it—if he can figure out how to get it to interface with his system. 

"Any luck?" Clark asks, quite literally hovering at Bruce's shoulder.

"I think so," Bruce says, as he takes a Kryptonian cable tentacle-thing and lets it slide through his hands with eerie, mercurial grace. A little firm guidance, and it molds itself inside a usb slot. "Though it's easier to concentrate when you're not breathing down my neck."

"Sorry," Clark says, pretty much an absent reflex because he's already ignoring Bruce and looking up at the screens. They've woken up, an array of silver glyphs spilling across the displays. "It's working."

"Heh. Figures it'd be simpler than getting my network to recognize the wireless printer. Is that Kryptonese?"

"Yeah," Clark says, and taps at the keyboard. A fresh cascade of glyphs appear; Clark stares at them intently, eyes scanning back and forth.

Bruce glances at him, raises an eyebrow. "You can read it." 

"I can." 

"Is it difficult to learn?"

"Uh, I didn't learn, exactly." Clark gives a diffident shrug. "It's a pretty weird story." He navigates through a few screens, pulling out matrices of elaborate symbols, moving them into a more familiar structure of folders on Bruce's desktop. "But you'll like this. It's a dictionary, kind of."

"A lexicon," Bruce says. This will be incredibly useful for communicating in the field. Their own cipher, a secret code. "You're going to teach me."

*

Bruce throws himself into the task. Clark's a decent teacher, and sets him to learning in the simplest tenses—

("It makes you sound like a five year old, but we all have to start somewhere."

"I'm a quick study. Move me up a grade.")

—and explains what enough of the glyphs mean to navigate the database. Bruce spends his late mornings transliterating Kryptonese script into roman and buttonholing Clark into translating pages of the stuff whenever he can, ignoring his good-natured complaints about too much homework. At first it seems impenetrable, but then things begin to fall into place; he learns enough to draw parallels between the languages he already knows, and apply it. It's rewarding to have the words begin to roll off his tongue without thought, worn into familiarity.

*

"," he says to Clark one morning, shuffling through the sheaves of notes spread across his keyboards. It's a well-used greeting, partnered with a new phrase Bruce encountered recently. He's figured that it means 'partner'. Something like a chosen bond, a connotation of complementary duality. Seems apt.

"...what," Clark says. He stares at Bruce, a little incredulous.

"Pronunciation off?" Bruce asks him. "," he says again, trying more weight on the second syllable.

Clark continues to just stare at him wide-eyed, like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

". Clark? ?" Damnit, he was sure he had this down. He tries again, watching Clark for some indication that he's got it right. "?"

Clark blinks, takes a short breath and clasps Bruce's shoulder. "," he says in that resonant voice of his, slowly, almost like he's tasting the words. "You had it right the first time."

*

Later on Bruce comes across the phrase again, along with a substantial amount of unambiguous context. It takes a moment to sink in and then he has to go pace around the cave for a while, trying to shake off the jags of mortification (and ignore the keen edge of exhilaration).

*

After that Bruce selects a word that is more appropriate to use, and thrashes the pronunciation to within an inch of its life. Later, when Clark hands him a coffee he says, "."

Clark covers it quickly, but Bruce didn't miss the brief collapse of his smile. "."

Bruce's pronunciation is impeccable. That should please him, but it doesn't. He sips his coffee and thinks about the way Clark had looked at him when he'd misspoken. The embarrassment has faded, but the way Clark had echoed him, gaze unwavering and voice utterly sincere even for him, has not.

(And maybe Bruce has been thinking on that a lot, lately.)

"Clark," he says, without stopping, without giving himself the opportunity to reason himself out of it. "."

Clark's smile is brilliant. "," he says. "Your accent is improving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHEESE ALERT
> 
> \- Good morning, heart's mirror.  
>  \- Heart's mirror.  
>  \- Thank you, friend.  
>  \- You're welcome. Friend.  
>  \- My heart's mirror. Thank you.


	2. Lofty Ownership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashfic fill for the kinkmeme, based on two randomly generated words.

"I remember now," Bruce Wayne says to Clark, approximately two hours and half a dozen glasses of champagne later. The man grabbed him by the elbow a little while ago, apparently intent on taking a moonlit stroll around the Luthor estate. "I do own that one." 

"Right," Clark says, clutching his own drink like a lifeline. He takes a sip so he doesn't have to think of anything else to say.

"Which means," Wayne continues, with that air of ostentation afforded to the very wealthy or the very inebriated, "in turn, I own you."

"Oh," Clark says. "Kay." He notes the way Wayne is slurring his words with some interest. He's not as drunk as he'd like Clark to think. Certainly not drunk enough to hook his thumb into Clark's belt loop like that.

"So what I want to know is," Wayne says, and tugs, frowns, tugs again and this time Clark lets himself be reeled in, close enough to smell Wayne's expensive cologne, the alcohol on his breath--and something earthy that reminds Clark of dark, secret places. The moonlight catches Wayne's eye with a hard glint. "What can you do for me, son?"


	3. Clarkseid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a discussion involving Darkseid, Kara's Apokolips outfit, and Clark coming back wrong.
> 
> I refuse to be held responsible for neither art nor pun.


	4. Ghostly Monosyllable

It should have been him. 

But Diana had plucked him from Doomsday's spikes, and it had been Bruce and not Clark that had forged into the creature with kryptonite spear in hand. Maybe it was like the papers said, a tragedy but not an unexpected one, the Batman had been careening off the rails and needed this act of redemption. Or maybe it was like Alfred said, somber and red-eyed, that Master Wayne had been very tired these last few years. So very tired.

Either way, doesn't change the fact that Clark is enshrouded in the gloom of the Wayne family mausoleum, bringing a farewell to a man he barely knew and yet whose death has struck him profoundly in ways he can't explain.

Maybe if Bruce was in his place he'd be standing in a Kansas cemetery in the late evening sun. He might linger there with hope in his heart, might whisper his name and believe it could call him from his grave. 

Clark, placing wildflowers in a vase, has no such luxury.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how to present this with the required explanation -- this'll have to do. *hands*


	6. Unzip

Bruce keeps one hand pressed over the knife wound in Clark's side, glides the other down Clark's back, then around his waist, fingertips seeking a zipper that simply isn't there. He frowns in puzzlement. "Clark," he says. It's a question.

"Here, like this," Clark says, voice made unfamiliar with pain. It was just a trace of kryptonite that did it, a pinch of the stuff ground into a powder and suspended in talcum, blown in his face. Not enough to put him out by a long shot, but enough to make him significantly more penetrable.

Bruce watches Clark's uniform ripple under his touch, material parting like viscous oil when he draws his fingers over it-- _through_ it. An arc across his hip, deep diagonal into his groin, then a swooping line over his thigh. The fabric separates, peels away like a husk.

"Thank you," Bruce says. The bandaging is superfluous, technically; Bruce just needs him to stop bleeding on everything. The morning sun will take care of the rest.

*

Days later, and they're in the cave talking tactics. Clark's paging through documents on the screens and rallying off relevant info as he comes across it, while Bruce paces in thought.

After a while he realizes Clark is waiting patiently for a response, and Bruce has to admit that he's not really been listening at all. He could try to catch up the threads of the conversation and dissemble, but by the quality of the silence he suspects Clark is already on to him.

He spins Clark around in his chair and flattens his palm on the man's hip. It's a cheap distraction when he could just apologize, but Bruce's arsenal has contingencies for even the shallowest gradient.

"Like this?" Bruce says. He curls his fingers down the inside of Clark's thighs, then splits the material with the edge of his palms. Swooping lines, deep diagonals, arcs.

Clark inhales sharply. He nods, uniform ribboning away from his skin. It hits the floor with a gentle susurration. "Just like that," he says, as Bruce gets to his knees.


	7. Bat Petting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just hanging with the Megachiroptera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why is your cape down here?"
> 
> "It gets in my face when I'm upside-down. What's your secret, Bruce?"
> 
> "..."


	8. Pilgrim Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *discreetly shoves this bit of schmoop at the end*
> 
> Anon prompted this: _Just want a focus on Bruce being older and feeling the wear of being Batman. Maybe he can't go all night like he used to when he was younger, or he has a bad back, and some nights he's just too exhausted to get it up. Sometimes Bruce worries that he can't satisfy Clark sexually, but sometimes Clark actually prefers it when they can just sleep together, or give each other simple hand jobs._

It's Friday, a few minutes before one a.m. and Clark is in his awful plaid shirt and glasses, flight bag bristling with luggage tags still slung over his shoulder as he pins Bruce against one of the massive lakehouse windows.

"I missed you," he says against Bruce's neck, his hands on Bruce's hips, pulling him in tight. For all his gentle romance Clark is firm against Bruce's thigh and god, Bruce missed him too even if he could never say it so easily, but it's been a long, heavy week. Superman may be able to jaunt across the planet in the blink of an eye, but Clark Kent had an international story to chase, and halfway around the world, he was the middle of his working day while Bruce was in the dead of Gotham's night. It's nothing he couldn't handle on his own, of course—and he's certainly not become reliant on Superman's abilities—but he's not as young as he used to be, either.

When it comes down to it, the spirit is willing, as they say, but the flesh is utterly beat.

So Bruce cups Clark's jaw and kisses him lightly, just a soft press of lips because it wouldn't be fair to drink him in the way Bruce wants to, not when he's just going to send him home to his own bed.

Clark's forehead worries into a frown, then smooths out as he takes in Bruce's face, obviously inventorying the dark shadows under his eyes, the stress lines and the concealed bruises. "You're exhausted," he says.

Bruce lifts one shoulder and valiantly stifles a yawn.

"Then go to bed, idiot," Clark says fondly.

I was waiting up for you, Bruce doesn't say. "I was on my way when you barged in."

"Uh huh, sure." Clark tugs Bruce's tie off, and his jacket, shepherds him into the bedroom with alarming ease. It's not as hard to resist Clark's hand on the fly of his slacks, but only because he can't bear to disappoint him.

"It's okay," Clark says, hand stilling under Bruce's. "I just want—"

"Come by tomorrow, I'll be more—"

"I just wanted to see you—"

"—capable, I'm just, right now, I—"

"—I guess I hoped you missed me too, and—"

"I did," Bruce says, surprise knocking the words out of him. "Clark."

"Then let me stay!" Clark says, laughing. "God, Bruce. You're so bad at this."

Like Clark is any better—but he isn't wrong. Bruce falls back against the mattress and sighs inwardly, lets Clark pull his shirt away, lift his hips and tug off his slacks. He remains resolutely limp, despite how much his lizard brain is clamoring. Years of training and meditation and razor-edged discipline, and apparently all it takes is this insufferable ray of sunshine to set his nerves buzzing, even when he's physically incapable of acting on it.

"This is new," Clark says, finger tracing the outline of a bruise on Bruce's ribs.

"Tuesday," Bruce offers by way of explanation. Clark leans in and kisses the edge of it, then tumbles Bruce against the sheets, that terrible shirt filling Bruce's vision. "Get this off," he says, tugging at the top button, "or I will actually kick you out."

"Gosh. Well, if you insist."

The next thing Bruce knows there is nothing but flagrant nudity going on; Clark is pressed against his bared skin, his natural warmth like a balm against Bruce's aching muscles. He manages to stifle a groan, but there's no way Clark missed the deep inhale, the hitch in his breath.

"I thought about you all the time," Clark murmurs into Bruce's shoulder. "It seemed a lot longer than a week."

"Mm."

Here is where he'd consider rolling Clark onto his stomach and bracing his hands in the small of his back, edging inside him by increments until he's babbling pleas and curses, endearments and indictments. But that's not happening tonight. Even turning over seems far too laborious.

So instead he presses his face into Clark's shoulder, nuzzles into his familiar scent and sighs, deep and complacent as Clark buries his fingers in his hair.

"I just wanted," Clark murmurs. "This." He drops a series of kisses on Bruce's forehead and cheek. Another on his chin, followed by a brush of his thumb. "Just, you."

Bruce is never sure how to handle this unselfconscious intimacy—Clark is the strongest weak point he could have, but he still amounts to a vulnerability and that's not something he countenances easily—but he is saved from having to formulate a response by Clark's mouth covering his, gently testing his guard.

(Sometimes the dissonance threatens to wreck him; the compulsion to push Clark away even as Bruce willingly pulls him into his confidence.)

But nobody else is here to listen to his groan of need, so he lets it happen and dives into the kiss, easing Clark's mouth open, teasing him with the edge of his teeth, light enough that it wouldn't hurt him even if it could, but enough to make Clark inhale sharply and hook his calf over Bruce's, entwining them closer.

"I could do this forever," Clark says against his mouth.

"I don't have that long," Bruce says, pulling himself flush against Clark's body, pressing into the firmness of his youth. "But feel free to try."

"Bruce," Clark breathes, "don't say that."

It's not something they talk about, how Bruce has a head-start to begin with, even without taking Clark's theoretical longevity into account. The invulnerability is gulf enough.

Bruce kisses him harder, apology and confession all at once: I would too, if I could.

Clark's hand is on his shoulder, stroking down over his arm and waist and stomach, fingertips pressing and relaxing as they kiss, seeking the most tender spots of his body only to brush over them in circles or curl against his skin into a fist. Bruce can feel how hard he is and how unconcerned he is about it, no needy jerk of the hips demanding attention, only a sincere indulgence in Bruce's pleasure and the occasional gentle roll against Bruce's thigh, incidental to the attention he's lavishing with his mouth and his hands.

It seems to last for hours; Bruce slides toward and is tugged from the edge of sleep again and again by Clark's slow mouth, the leisurely turn of his tongue against his lips, aphrodisiac and soporific and all idle affection until he eventually draws back to rest his head on Bruce's chest. He exhales in a long, contented sigh.

*

It's Saturday, five a.m., and the bright summer dawn is pushing through the glass of the lake house, blooming over the walls and the sheets and the curve of Clark's shoulder. It's hard on Bruce's tired eyes so he closes them, shuts the morning down into something softer and more manageable.

He doesn't open them even when he feels Clark move down his body, not even when he feels the press of his lips against the inside of his thigh, nor the molten heat of the inside of his mouth.

"Morning," he gasps, as Clark twists his tongue around him, teases him into a hard-earned half-hardness.

Clark pulls off him with a wet noise, takes his hand and kisses the inside of his wrist. "Morning," he says, low and resonant against Bruce's skin. "Up for much?"

"Don't know," Bruce says, smiling down at him, easy and genuine. "Want to find out?"

***


End file.
